Overture Downs not my friend but i wont say no

the cerulean maiden, however, does not disappear as ulfric moves closer into the thick clouds. she isn’t armed with guardsmen, nor does she stand poised to attack when the distance is far enough. the strange woman is quiet, lips unmoving, yet something about her roars like a leopard in the snow—cold and fierce. it is her eyes, he realizes, bright as comets in the dark cloak of night.
she watches him. studies him, the way a hunter does prey. he can feel it, the way she takes in his scent—urdwood, cloves, the iron tang of old blood. he cannot blame her. he does the same.
so, maybe she is not a doted princess, but that does not mean she isn’t of noble blood. ulfric can picture her in a court of lords, speaking politics between lavish feasts and shallow pleasantries. but these are only guesses, shadows of truth formed by sight alone. they mean nothing.
when he is close enough, she speaks of his travels, of their insufferability. he stops. his silhouette catches most of the falling snow, shielding her from the cold winds.
he wonders, briefly, what she sees when she looks at him. what she makes of the scars, the weight in his stance, the coldness in his eyes. strange—he has never cared for such things, yet here he is, thinking on it. best to snuff it out now before it lingers.
"your eye is sharp," he says, voice rough with exhaustion. his gaze lowers to her, half-lidded, unreadable. his tail swings low as he exhales slow, steady. "the good folk of brightreach… not so good. but you, you would not know that."
because he has never seen anyone quite like her within that town.